Buried in Blue
by Sulcal
Summary: [FanFic100 related] Executives, Turks, exTurks and the only constants in all the world: changes, coffee, and blue suits. [Mostly Reeve and Vincent Centric]
1. Jump Start

Notes: I'm sure there have been several of these playing around. Therefore, I'll refrain from explaining it other than for the FanFic100 LJ community. Rating may vary. Fandom drabbles/short one-shots for Reeve, Vincent, and the other Turks (including those form Crisis Core). Again, fan fiction, views may not match others'. 

Chars: Reeve and Vincent

Warnings: Slight Dirge of Cerberus spoilers, for those who still haven't played it yet.

Rating: G

Theme: Beginnings

Jump Start

Vincent couldn't exactly explain it. At some point in time, he supposed, it began with a simple word, a simple thank you. No one, in all his years, had ever said thank you. Not even Cid.

(Not that he blamed the pilot, since he never actually said more than showed thanks-- he was odd that way.)

The people didn't count. They were innocents for the most part. None of them really deserved the terrors that Deepground had caused. Their thanks had been different --though the media of it was certainly unappreciated-- and it was alright that they were grateful. That was fine. Perfectly fine.

But Reeve wasn't thanking him for saving the world (again).

"What?" Vincent asked, brows drawing down. De had tried to walk away, tried not to listen before someone else got 'mushy' on him. And Reeve had grabbed him by the elbow, knowing full well that what he'd just done was a very bold move: old Turk habits die hard.

"I said thanks. For being here." Reeve stated, eyes not angry, not sad, just surprisingly understanding. "And I'm sorry."

Vincent couldn't bring himself to actually be irritated with him. And Reeve let his arm go, letting him drop it, and all the gunman could do was look him over again, seeing this man for the first time.

Reeve was thanking him for always being here in a different sense. And apologizing for the fact that immortality meant having to live and excruciatingly long time. At least until Omega returned-- just because it's threat was stopped now didn't mean that Chaos wasn't going to come back, that Omega can't be reborn. Reeve was thanking him for being here and apologizing for the fact that Chaos leaving him hadn't killed him like Reeve had probably hoped it would. Vincent would have to wait for Omega again. And Vincent wouldn't be able to stop it then, if someone else tried to start Deepground's business all over again.

"It wasn't a bid deal."

"No, probably not."

Vincent shook his head, frowning, and Reeve smiled at him slightly before holding out his hand.

"I want you to come work for me, for WRO. Would you kindly take up the task of heading the WRO Security Department, Vincent Valentine?" the man asked. "And also as co-head of WRO itself?"

Reeve wasn't just offering him a job, he was offering him a beginning-- offering him a chance to have something to do until the time Omega returned, however far away or fast approaching that is.

Notes: Fanfiction's formatting is a bitch and I hope everyone knows I hate it.


	2. Physical Belief

Notes: This will have mistakes. Grammer, spelling, that sort of thing. (frowns) I need a beta. Anyhoot-- a venture into the slghtly sicker part of my mind, I guess.

Characters: Veld/Vincent

Rating: M for Mature, people.

WARNING! There is slightly graphic YAOI, Veld (from Before Crisis) with Vincent. You have a problem with that, hit hte back button. Blood, gore, mentionings of violence.

Theme: Touch

Physical Belief

There has always been a line between them, between their methods and their reasons and their beliefs. Turks don't have much on belief. Like the scientists, they played God with lives-- gambled them, their own, others'. Perhaps not quite in _that_ way, but they did, so they don't belief in much of anything other than the fact that you can die. That there is always blood and bone, that things break under strong hands, under electric rods, under explosions. Turks believed in death the way the living belief in breathing-- it happens often enough to be familiar. And once it's familiar, once it's in your breath and you have it in your fingers (almost tangible, only it can't be), then it's there for good, it'll never go away, never be washed off and it will leave a black mark on your soul for good.

Oh, and there are ways to die.

Veld and Vincent always worked together for several reasons.

One of them being the fact that Vincent was the only one crazy enough to hunt down defected Turks and another being that Veld knew him well enough to make sure to go after him, to pull his ass out of the fire before he got burned. Another might be the fact that Veld and his partner were the only ones that knew how to get in touch with each other aside from the calls the bring them to work, past the formalities, deeper than anything. They were friends. That was more than enough belief and certainly more than what other Turks had at the time. Turks don't change with the times, actually. That's a common misconseption. They've stayed the same since they first came into being. Veld was proof of it, Vincent, the others, the whole department. The only thing that changed with them was their jobs. From recon, to assassinations. Flexible, like cartalidge. Bending without breaking.

But for all the reasons they worked together, it was how they did it.

In and out, messy or not. Without questions, without mercy. Not the judge, not the jury. Never the Jury. Only executioner. They knew ways to die. They knew anatomy like it was second nature. It was what made them _partners_-- "partners in crime" never covered it. It went deeper than that. Far deeper. They were never seen apart very often. Good, the Head would say, good, because that's getting the job done, that's showing skill, smarts, one to help the other, _balance_. It was when they wern't together that was feared.

Because knowing ways to die meant that you knew ways to kill.

They were dangerous like that.

Veld looked up from the pool of blood, frowning, watching his partner's reflection in it as it expanded, grew. "You didn't need to be so messy about it."

Vincent glared at him, jerking the knife out of his side and hissing as Veld was there in seconds, pressing hard into the wide wound and trying to staunch the bleeding. "Ricochetted," was all he said. The knife in his hand was seraded-- tore instead of sliced so you could bleed out instead of the cut sealing up.

There was a man and five others around him in mostly-large-pieces on the floor of the Shinra car garage. It was supposed to be go in, kill the guy, call in the cleaning team, and get out. Neither of them we expecting the target (they never bothered with names, names meant something) to actually be expecting it. That was the thing; they'd been surprised, caught off guard. Veld had managed to get teh target, snap his neck clean, without the mess. But Vincent was never like that. Vincent seemed to prefer the mess.

And Veld, for all the times he's called his partner friend, has never actually known why.

"What is it with you and blood. Don't tell me it's a secret fetsh of yours," the man asked, watching the good amount flowing from between his fingers and pushing Vincent back on the top of the car so that all the vertical flow of it won't worsen the loss of the red liquid. "The bleeding isn't stopping-- put your hand here..."

Vincent doesn't argue. He trusts Veld. That says enough on its own. So he presses down as her as he can, despite the fact that he's half-sprawled, half-laying on the hood of a half exploded car and cursing silently, to himself, that maybe he should have just let Veld get stabbed.

And hten realzes, no, he wouldn't have.

Veld comes back with a chunk of super-heated metal from the small explosion in his jacket, the gears in his mind working fast. People will notice, and the clean-up crew were on their way. They needed to be out of here. Vincent looked at him with eyes that are as red as blood, but oddly not glazed over. He was bleeding from his head where it'd cracked against a support near them, and probably had about as many cuts and bruises as Veld did. Silently, Veld nodded, and Vincent didn't bother with the buttons as he tore his shirt and jacket out of the way, letting his partner press the chunk of metal to his side. There was the smell of burning flesh and blood boiling over, and Vincent's head snapped back from the pain but he didn't utter a sound, no, nothing but holding his breath, pure habit. Then Veld was checking it over.

It would scar, but the wound was seared closed for the most part.

Veld tossed the metal aside before reaching for his partner, sliding Vincent up and onto his feet.

Vincent doesn't complain he never does. He just let's Veld drive him home, to Veld's apartment simply because his is closest. He always wondered why he bothered sometimes, why he bothered getting in between Veld and possibly fatal blows with knives and guns and fists. He ponders on it a lot, sometimes. Vincent never reaches a conculsion, though, never has. He simply keeps an eye on his wound and then glances over at Veld.

He's bleeding. On his chin. A deep gash. And when the car has stopped and they're finally up to Veld's apartment, Vincent stops him and looks at the cut before dragging his tongue along it, hot and wet, and tasting rusted iron. Veld looked at him, glasses slightly escue, brown eyes vaguely confused but well-hidden as all Turks' are.

"A fetish?" he askes.

Vincent shrugged and licked his lips. "Want it to be?"

"No wonder you're not any good at picking up women."

"Neither are you."

It never mattered.

There are ways to die, many, many ways, and even less to believe in.

Veld brought his hands out, the gloved palms and gloveless fingers tracing up under the material of Vincent's shirt and pushing it off, kissing him as he led them backwards and into the small bathroom. He'd admit: Vincent looked damn good in red. Veld pulled away from the taste, though. Not that it was bad. And Vincent simply smiled a little-- the slight tilting up of the corners of his lips that he rarely ever gave at all.

Touch and death are what Turks believe in.

It the press of wet skin in the shower, of hands kneading at flesh that matteres. The push and the pull and the kisses and bites; the pain and the pleasure. It's Vincent's blunt fingernails down Veld's back. It's the feeling of being filled to the point of spilling and the cold of the tile, how the feeling of heatheat_heat_ makes the memories of death burn away for a moment. The water would wash away the mess, but never the blood, and that was something they'd come to live with. To accept.

Perhaps, Vincent vaguely wondered as Veld pressed into him again, sharp and wonderful and his mouth attacking his partners, that they kept each other alive not just because they were partners.

They knew where to touch. Understood each other.

And sometimes that was better than any kind of forgiveness.


	3. Bright

Notes: And this, perhaps, is the sappiest thing I've written in a while. And, surprisingly, no actual warnings... Other than slight violence, anyways. Beware spelling and grammer errors.

Characters: Tseng and Elena (Mid AC), with Vincent thrown in there a little bit... (can you tell I'm obsessed?)

Rating: PG-13 (screw FF's rating system!)

Theme: Yellow

Bright

Tseng woke up, oddly enough, to a pair of blue eyes. He remembered everything up to the point where he'd passed out-- how long ago, he couldn't say. He would've expected green, sure. Green and cat-like and vicious. And Elena in all her relief that he wasn't dead flung her arms over him, tears in her eyes. She'd always been emotional. Tseng had come to expect that. Even... enjoy it on occasions. It was better than the emptiness he usually forced on himself out of habbit. What he _wasn't_ expecting was the pain in his chest. Not at first. Or the fact that his arms felt like they had been pulled out of their sockets on more than one occasion. So Tseng winced, breath hissing out through his clenched teeth.

Then the Turk realized what had woken him up, sitting up in one quick motion as he felt a slight tugging at his left leg.

A man he barely recognized was stitching up his leg. A deep gash that Tseng remembered getting, vaguely. Not how, but he remembered it nonetheless. And then he remembered the man who, without looking at him, finihsed the stitching and jabbed him with a needle.

"Elena, please hand my that gauze."

Elena scrambled, and Tseng noticed that under her tattered clothing she was covered in thick bandaging. He frowned, mind going vaguely foggy as he was pushed back onto the ground.

A tent. He was in a tent.

"Do you remember me?" the man in red asked him, and Tseng nodded.

"Valentine..." he muttered.

"You are going to feel pain. Unfortunately, I didn't come prepared with enough morphine or medical supplies. Elena, hold him down."

Tseng didn't completely remember Valentine. Just the vague sense that he'd been helped and that he'd been in and out of consciousness for hours, he supposed.

People think and realize odd things under morphine. Like how he'd found himself with his head in Elena's lap, her fingers in his hair. He'd muttered something, he knew, and she'd looked at him with those blue eyes of her and he was suddenly reminded of someone who he couldn't put his finger on. But most of all Elena's bright blonde hair. She'd talk to him. Sometimes. And he felt a little sorry that he couldn't coherently reply. She was seriously injured, Tseng would remind himself...

It wasn't until Rude had come with the helicopter and he and the woman were secured in it, that he felt her hand in his for the first time. Elena had avoided contact with him other than his head in her lap and her fingers in his hair, and he'd been... oddly comforted by that.

"I didn't talk," she said, looking at him.

Tseng hadn't known what to say. He'd just glanced at her, and she squeezed his hand tighter.

He remebered the torture, remembered the pain and the slight moment of pure arrogance when he'd only spit blood back at Kadaj. And he remembered Elena's silence.

She was stronger than that. Proved it over and over again, sometimes. He was proud of her. She'd pulled her act together since Meteorfall.

It wasn't until he was once more fiting himself back into his suit that he saw her in his door way, holding out his tie, that hte Turk leader realized a lot of things he should have.

As a Wutaiian, he wasn't particularly tall or bulky. He was slight, roughly taller than Elena, and he noticed how tanned she'd gotten lately when he took his tie from her hand, her fingers wrapped around the material gently. He noticed how strong she's gotten in only a few years, how much of an impacted Reno and Rude had left on her (she'd stopped wearing a tie long ago).

"I couldn't find your replacement... so... there's mine."

Tseng nodded. "Thank you. Would you join me for coffee, Elena?"

But it was her slight smile the most.

Elena lowered her face slightly, her bright blonde hair --a stark constrast to everything muted in the lodge-- falling in her face a little. "I'd... like that, sir," she said.

Tseng found himself reaching out to brush her hair away. It was bright blonde, the kind that seemed to absorb even the slightest fractions of sunlight, and it match her eyes, but not quite the suit. He wasn't sure why he hadn't seen her like this before, this beautiful woman.

He... liked her.

Her and her billion-watt bright smile when he let his lips twitch back up in response.


	4. As the saying goes

Notes: Hm. I feel a little accomplished. Beware my horrible grammar.

Characters: Rude. Mostly.

Rating: E for Everyone!

Theme: Children

As the saying goes…

Shinra takes everything sometimes. At least, everything of importance.

Rude didn't remember much about being a child, really, and he wasn't reminded of it either when he found himself wandering Edge. There were less children out of the streets, but he never really could recall what it was like to actually once have had parents. Most of them are just abandoned children of SOLDIERs. He could tell by the way their eyes held flecks of brightness. Flecks of mako.

When he'd started wondering that, he wasn't sure. Rude didn't ponder things often. He just did as told.

He supposed it was when a ball had gotten kicked out from the sidewalk and near his foot.

The Turk had bent forward to pick it up-- bright red in this city of still-greys, still piercing somehow in its intensity even behind his shades. A little girl with equally bright red hair had chasing after it all dressed in white. She'd looked at him with mako-blue eyes… They'd stared at each other for a moment, then Rude carefully handed the ball back, completely and utterly caught off guard.

"Tessa! Tessa!" the little girl's father came rushing, and he'd looked at Rude with the same mako-colored eyes.

A SOLDIER.

There was a flicker of recognition in the guy's face. Mostly for the suit, Rude supposed.

He'd walked away and hadn't come back to where he was temporarily staying until later that night, Reno sprawled across the old couch.

The redhead had jumped up, then, a grin on his face. "Geez, the hell did you run off for? Thought I'd die of boredom!"

Rude shrugged.

Reno completely understood, thankfully, and although his grin wavered he simply just shrugged back a little. "What were you thinking about?"

Shinra _used_ to take everything.

Rude only remembered being a Turk. Only remembered being stripped down to bare bones and being rebuilt, rewired, put back together bit by bit. But he did remember one thing. He remembered he didn't have any parents. He remembered too many foster homes to count.

When he didn't say anything Reno just plopped back down onto the couch and sighed.

"Do you remember being a kid?"

Mako-blue eyes looked up at him.

That was the thing about Reno. The redhead never acted like he hated anybody, never held too much of a grudge, and his eyes were always a sort of sobering kind-- the kind that looked right at you and not right through you, that never held any sort of blankness or malice. In a sense, it was the opposite of himself, Rude had often realized.

Like a child's eyes, only not.

"Huh?" Reno had let his brows draw down, even as Rude moved to sit next to him. "A kid?"

"Yeah."

"Kinda. Maybe. I dunno."

It's what Rude had been thinking about, really. If Shinra was rebuilt, would Rufus truly proved he'd changed?

But, then again, Rude had to ask himself if he'd changed. And then the realization of something new would come to him every time he asked himself that.

No.

No, he hasn't changed. Not really.

He didn't remember his childhood, but he remembered everything after that. Shinra used to take that from you so you wouldn't remember what it was like not to hate anyone else, not to really want to kill anyone else. There wasn't a whole lot of the original self Rude had left aside from what Reno kept together. And he felt a little stupid for being reminded of that, actually. Times doesn't run in reverse, and Shinra often proved old saying wrong.

For Turks, life isn't lived forward and remembered backwards.

Life was stuck and memory of it was sucked away.

SOLDIERs, in Rude's opinion, reminded of the man and his daughter, were lucky in the sense that they could move on.


	5. Wandering

Notes: Blah, blah, blah-- haven't posted in a while. Blah, blah, whatever. I'm tired, having to deal with dental work, and on painkillers. (hmph)

Warnings: Not much. Slight spoilers for the end of the game. But I'm sure everyone reading fanfics from this category has already played it.

Rating: PG, K+, whatever.

Theme: Ends

Wandering

Vincent walked a lot, for lack of anything better to do. He walked with his memories in hand, trailing him almost tangibly. They weren't ghosts, that at least he'd come to appreciate. Proof that it happened, he supposed; proof that those people in his memories had existed and that there had been a world that they'd left behind. Vincent guessed this is what Aeris must have felt like-- being the last of the Cetra.

He wasn't the last living thing on the planet. Not by a long shot.

But he might as well be.

Somehow, Vincent found himself back at Midgar, back at Edge. It'd been abandoned long ago, and he felt oddly timeless, looking as unchanged as he always did though that was never a problem that weighed all that much on his mind. Mostly, he just wanted to wander. And the sight of the two meshed cities made him realize that he'd been avoiding them for years. Years and years and years... Odd thing, eternity. You lose track of time until you think back on it.

Part of him had always wondered if maybe he should try and call forth Omega again himself. Vincent still possessed the power to do it. Nothing would stop him-- _could_ stop him. He could call forth Omega again, somehow, and finally meet his end. The odds of Sephiroth coming back were pretty much non-existent. There are no more remnants. There are no more lies. Only the Planet and its infinite secrets...

Vincent walked a lot, for the lack of anything better to do. He skirted around Edge for a time, dancing around its limits, surprised at how plants have seemed to overtaken the place. Like a battle. A battle that the vegitation almost seemed to think it was losing the way it tried to choke up old cars and buildings and streets, trying to reclaim as much ground as possibly before the mako might burn it away again. But there wasn't any mako, not anymore.

_"I'm sorry to have dragged you into this, Vincent. But could you take care of it for me...?"_

The man was reminded of someone for a second as he passed a familiar street. Vincent's memory was razor sharp in that sense. Sometimes it cut and it hurt and caused him to bleed, and sometimes it just stood there to vaguely remind him of just why he liked walking so much.

Reeve had been stupid, he thought. Back then the Mighty Vincent Valentine might have not objected because he lacked anything better to do, just as he did now, but...

Vincent, who was just who he was now, a man wandering the empty world, knew better. He'd done it because he'd wanted something to define his purpose. Not that he had one now, either. And sometimes he wondered if he'd go insane from waiting. Can you imagine how horrible that must be, he'd heard once on the news, after it'd become evident that one of the warriors from the Jenova war wasn't dying, can you imagine how horrible that is to be immortal? To have to live for so long?

He'd disappeared after people started feeling sorry for him. It hadn't put an end to the specualtion (_yes, that's what it is, speculation, because what do they know about eternity? What do they know about watching everything __**die**_).

Vincent just hadn't wanted to hear it.

And then he'd wandered.

Sometimes he would dream what the End would be like, if or when it came. He imagined facing Chaos and the feeling was an odd thing, considering Chaos had been a part of him and he'd been a part of Chaos, once, so long ago. He'd dreamt of just thowing his arms out, wide, like wings, like embracing something new, and finally becoming part of the Lifestream again. He'd dreamt of the not-quite-relief and the not-quite-regret when it'd come in blinding furry, clashing violently into a single whole thing he probably would never be able to define. Even _with_ his long, long, _**long**_ years of experience. Would there actually be a paradise at the end of it all? Would he finally become what he'd originally been before life had twisted and shaped him into something else? Would there be a hell? Fire and brimstone?

_Up in green light we'll go, and oh, Heaven is on fire_

Vincent walked a lot, for lack of anything better to do...

At some point in time, he came down to where the Shinra Headquarters had once been, wandered, drifted back to where the World Restoration Organization had once held. There were some memories, if but vague ones lost to the wear and tear things were often prone to by Time. Later, when Nanaki would ask what the problem was, Vincent would simply shake his head. Nanaki understood.

"Nothing."

"I see... Well, the cubs seem to have taking a liking to you."

There are ends, and then there are Ends. There is time, and then there is Time. And a huge part of Vincent is actually rather glad that he still had Nanaki. Not for the simple fact that it's someone to talk to, but more so the fact that it made things a little less boring. Life goes on, and even though things, people, places have come and gone, the memories are still there. Memories are nice. And not everything has to be as bad as it seems.

That's something Vincent had learned long ago.

Either way, he supposed it was time to stop wandering.


	6. Clear WaterP1

Notes: This was a sort of idea that came to me while writing "The Truth About Living". It's not really related, but I felt like being sappy. (shrug) I might eventually explain what it's all about. No guarantees, though. This is actually considerably short.

Characters: Reeve

Rating: PG

Theme: She

Clear Water

There were just some things Reeve Tuesti could never let go.

Guards were stationed around and in the old church. Not to prohibit anyone. Just watching, keeping an eye on the place while workers tried to carefully maneuver around the spring. Monsters and dangerous things still wandered around here. The fight with Deepground had seriously damaged a lot of what was left of the church, making it hard to clear out the surrounding area. He was having a proper memorial built for it. Not much. And people still came and went. Still brought flowers, laying them in the water, several even taking root somehow. But Reeve was the only one to ever come so late at night.

His visits to the old Sector 4 church weren't often. He knew Cloud came from time to time. Some of the guards would mention it…

A female guard saluted as Reeve walked past, smiling at him. "Good evening, Commissioner!"

"Good evening," he replied, smiling back, if but in a slightly thin way. "Things still quiet around here?"

"You bet, sir."

"Any visitors today?"

"They're starting to come back, bringing injured with them. I'll let you know if someone comes by, sir."

It was nice, Reeve thought, that the guards stationed inside let him be with understanding looks. The injured came here. The sick, the hungry, the poor. All around the clock, even. They came here, to this spring, and it was… Well, Reeve wasn't sure what it was to those people. He tries to do all he can for them, hopes he does, but he supposed this place brought a measure of comfort to those who knew this place once. And Reeve stood at the edge of the spring, watching the glimmered reflection of the lights that had been installed off of the water. Various flowers poked up from the surface, in bloom despite the fact that it was fall.

Slowly, the brunette set down his briefcase and lowered himself to a still standing pew.

He talked here. Maybe she listened, maybe she didn't. Reeve wasn't really all that sure. But he liked to think so, and he smiled. It was peaceful here.

"It's that day again…" he said mostly to the water, hands resting lightly on his thighs, wrinkling his slacks a little. "It's been years, now, Aeris. I would have brought flowers, but I forgot about it until the last minute. You know… I'm still sorry about that, the whole turning traitor. But I guess you always knew that."

The water rippled gently, but nothing else.

"A lot has happened since then, and I bet you could imagine. And I remember the things you used to say, about everyone. Maybe you're right… I can't take time off, though. There's a lot that needs doing. Did you know you were right about Vincent all along?" Reeve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "He _is_ a good person… disappeared for weeks. It was a while ago. I asked him to come work for me, and I was really surprised when he accepted.

"Come to think of it, these past few months really have been hectic. Even Cid does a lot of favors for me. Maybe it was too much to ask for. Especially when something recent fell into my lap. I've sent people looking for Weiss' body, right to where Vincent said it should have been… it wasn't. I think… I think we're in way over our head. And Vincent went to track down Rosso. I really didn't want him to go. Yuffie told me about the wound she gave him, ruthless…"

He went quit, and loosened his fingers. When had they started clenching to the point of bloodlessness?

"There can't…" the words died, at first. Reeve took a deep breath, letting the cool, fall air fill his lungs for one second, and then released it. "Maybe I'm too worried about it. It's been a few days. But he's a good person. I found it, too. Like I said last time, there's been interesting grammatical errors in his reports. Odd, isn't it? He's been sending me messages for weeks, and I just found them. He's been telling me where to find information, things Shinra's been hiding…"

He liked to think she listened, liked to think that maybe she was out there, somewhere. Reeve was pretty sure she was. After all, she's been watching over Cloud for a long time, and maybe…

Maybe she'd watch over him, too.

Reeve set his mouth in a tight line, his hands coming up and his fingers interlocking as the brunette pressed his forehead against his knuckles.

There was a fear in him. And a helplessness he couldn't even begin to explain, but it was there, making the color drain from his face. Making his heart sick.

"It's been killing me. The others seem to get it, to leave him alone. But seeing Shelke kills him more than I know he wants to admit. And Shalua… Shalua was the one who…"

Maybe she'd know what to do. Anything, anything at all to help it make sense.

"Aeris, I think I'm in love with him."


	7. Clear WaterP2

Notes: 'She' got me to thinking about Aeris. Don't ask me why. And 'he' made me think of Hojo. Hm. Two in two days, huh? Maybe my muse is coming back. There might be multiple alerts, for those who added this, because I keep having to edit the bad grammer in here. (shrug)

Characters: Aeris, Zack, and a slight bit of Reeve/Vincent.

Warnings: Sap. Yes. Weird sappiness, at that.

Rating: PG

Theme: He

Clear Water (Part2)

"He sure does talk to you a lot."

Aeris sighed as she placed a hand on her hip and the other over the edge of the carved bowl she was looking into. Zack watched her for a long moment with a steady, unwavering gaze. "I know," she finally said. "Honestly, sometimes there are people more like a child than Cloud ever was."

"Is," Zack corrected, half-joking and half-serious.

The bowl was made up of solid granite, old it seemed, chipped at the edges, and the water in it was dark despite the light around it. He often found her like that, staring into it, watching… Well, not that he could blame her. He watched sometimes, too. After all, that scatterbrained blonde-spiky-headed idiot needed all the help he could get sometimes. But he was watching Aeris this time, not the dark water of the living. Her eyes were narrowed in thought and her lips were pushed out in a soft pout.

Part of him would always love the way Aeris looked when she was thinking.

"Is," she amended after another moment. "You knew Reeve, right?"

"Not really. We've met once or twice, maybe." Zack frowned slightly, folding his arms over his chest.

Aeris sighed again and her arm dropped. "I didn't think so. I'm not sure there's much I can do for him. He tries so hard, and sometimes he forgets that he can help himself more easily than not." She paused, a finger coming up to tap thoughtfully at her chin. "Hey, Zack, what did you say to Cloud when you first met him?"

"Huh?" the man uttered, brows furrowing. He cocked his head slightly. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Zack!"

"Heh. Well… I told him best of luck. After that, I don't remember. Always seemed like we were always friends. But you know he's been here all along, right?"

"I know _that_."

There was a moment, long and quiet, and Zack finally gave up and let his arms drop from their position, coming up to stand beside Aeris at the bowel of water. He leaned his gloved hands along the edge. "Alright," he said, "You're up to something sneaky. I'll bite— what is it?"

Her green eyes didn't hold any mirth when she smiled this time. "It's the same situation, Zack. Cloud can only help himself now, and Reeve can only help himself."

"What about the other guy?"

"Him?" Aeris shook her head. "He's already doing that on his own, too. But there's one last thing I can do, I think, before I have to stop watching."

Zack was still scowling, still wondering, moving to lean against Aeris a little. Her weight pressed back. And they were leaning against each other, and he knew she was tired. Hell, anyone would be after all the effort she put into watching over the people she loved. She was the only one who could. And he appreciated her for that.

"What's that?" he asked after giving the woman a brief smirk.

Aeris nodded and reached into the bowl, fingers dipping into the dark water, and the whole thing turned clear under her pure touch. Her hand reached in, in far enough it seemed, and clenched her fist around a small, soft, white little light. Zack didn't recognize that light. Cloud's was green, brighter, and twisted and turned like fire. Or at least the Cloud he used to know— the one that was there, but not there(1). Zack knew what the water was, knew full well that it was one of the few pools like it. A well of soul, little lights, a thing collecting pierces of people that were left behind.

Cloud's had long ago disappeared.

Zack wrapped his left hand around her submerged wrist, helping Aeris pull her hand up from the water. When her touch left, the water was dark again.

The light was in her hand, flickering, small. But it was soft, despite it all. Powerful.

"What's this?" Zack asked, squinting at the unfamiliar fragment.

Aeris smiled softly at the little light as it huddled in her palm, her other moving to stroke fingers along the shivering thing. Like it was alive.

"Zack, you know what fragments are."

"Alright, _who_ is it?"

"It's…" she paused, the smile tipping down slightly. "It's one of the countless fragments Hojo left behind."

Zack flinched slightly at the name. How could she say something like that so easily? That, perhaps, he'd never know. But she knew. Aeris knew what this little light was— so small and fragile. It was warm in her palm but not entirely afraid of her. The little light was… something special.

"How's that going to help anyone, Aer? Reeve doesn't seem like he lost something in the Lifestream." Zack let Aeris' wrist go, shaking a little of the water off.

"It doesn't belong to Reeve, Zack."

"So… the other guy?"

"Yeah. It's the part of him that died. It's been waiting here a long time. Hojo did such… terrible things. He wasn't even allowed here after all of it. The Planet hated him so much, Zack. And this fragment is only kept alive by that hate."

"So…" Zack pointed at the little light. "That's hate? Something that…" he trailed, suddenly.

Hojo's name had never once been able to pass his lips since… since…

Since a long time ago, really.

Aeris shook her head at him. "No," she murmured, feeling her heart clench up like it always did when that terrible monster was brought up. "This isn't hatred at all. It's the part that stopped feeling."

"What are you gonna do with it?"

"I'm going to give it to Reeve. Everyone needs someone. Even us, Zack. You and I are just waiting for that someone to come back."

Aeris wrapped both hands around the little light, feeling it quiver with a soft sense of apprehension. _I know you don't want to,_ she silently told it, whispering a soft word of a little prayer. _But that man that you hate, that other half of yourself, those are things that you'll never find here._

With one final look in the dark pool of water, she let the little light go, and it fell to it, sinking quickly below the surface. Gone, within seconds.

_Reeve, you better take care._

Zack and Aeris stood there for a moment longer, lingering, and then she smiled at the dark-haired man.

"Well… I guess that's all that there is left, isn't there?" Aeris asked with another of her billion-watt smiles.

Zack resigned himself. There was never any fighting her. "I guess so. So… what now?"

"Well, we wait. What else?"

-----

Reeve grit his teeth, fingers hurting when they clenched so tightly and—

"Reeve?"

—he jolted straight upright, eyes wide for one split second before he even knew he was twisting around to the voice behind him.

Vincent was behind him, a damn bloody mess.

It took Reeve two seconds longer to realize it was literal. And he stood, lips slightly parted, as he looked the man over. Covered in blood. It had to be, despite the fact that it was flaking. But it was streaked across the man's face and his cloak, making it a darker red. His dark hair was matted with it and with mud. Or maybe it was just the blood mixed with dirt. And Reeve looked away, feeling bile rise up his throat like a sickness.

"Uh…" Reeve couldn't find the words. There was anger settling in his stomach like liquid fire. He could feel eyes on him, unwavering. "When did you… get back?"

"It's mostly mine, if that's what you're worried about."

The brunette made the mistake of glancing back, and the thought that it was… all of that blood? It was _his_? "Rosso? You didn't… did you?"

Vincent shook his head. "No. I didn't."

"How long have you been back?"

"An hour at the most."

"Why didn't you call?"

Vincent moved, shifted, and he seemed tired, before holding something out to Reeve.

Reeve opened his palm and something dropped into it; a PHS, broken, the casing cracked. It was the PHS Reeve had helped construct, one that was supposed to be able to withstand… well, just about anything, really. The brunette blinked at it. At the shattered casing and the hole ripped clean through it.

"What the…?" he began, trying not to look at Vincent, but also trying not to make it obvious he was relieved to see him.

"I wanted to apologize. It took a few bullets," Vincent stated simply, frowning over the collar of his cloak. "This seemed like the most logical place to find you."

Reeve closed his fingers over the shattered PHS. "You're a terrible liar, Vincent."

"…Maybe."

"Thanks, by the way."

They looked at each other for a brief moment; before Reeve couldn't stand the sight anymore, and had too glance away again. The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened, except that Reeve was back at the church, picking up something that he'd noticed from the water flashing up at him from the noon sun in the shadow of a worker walking by. A small bronze screw, actually, that seemed rather beaten up and was thin and long, essential looking. And when he'd looked at it closer, he realized why Vincent wasn't wearing his gauntlet anymore.

It was missing an important piece.

Later, months later, Reeve got to thinking about it, helping Vincent straighten his tie, even after it'd been a long time since Vincent had ever worn that gauntlet. He'd wondered, briefly, how the screw had gotten where it had in the first place.

But, then, when his coffee mug was handed to him, he'd forgotten all about it.

**1-** Most people seem to forget that the Cloud from Zack's past is dead.


	8. Danger Zone

Notes: Hmm... eventually I am going to have to get around to getting something more Veld centric than this. But... Meh (shrugs). It's an update. It'll do.

Characters: Mostly Veld

Rating: K+? Slight mentioning of blood

Theme: Work

Danger Zone

Turks have a dangerous line of work. Everyone knows it. But Veld's particular practice is especially dangerous. Unlike his brazen partner, though he'd never call him incapable, Veld preferred subtility. He'd been trained too long in memorizing, tracking, never leaving a trace of himself behind. To investigate everything thoroughly, but wash away everything. Long, long ago he'd learned ways to be diliberate, undetectable, _unreachable_. No, twenty-four years of age, and everything has become habit. Deep ingrained habits.

Never touch the surface of anything with your fingertips. Ever. That's the first rule. Never leave gloves behind. Ever. Fingerprints can be found from the inside. That's the second rule. And the list goes on...

Veld examined the room for a moment, commiting every little nook and crany to memory. It's his job to look, to watch, to wait.

"So?" Vincent asks, cocking his head to one side a little.

"This one will be a little tricky," Veld answered with a thin-lipped expression. "But we've left nothing."

"Hm," the other makes a sort of noncommital grunt and takes a step into the room.

But if there's anything he knows, he's probably not the only one who pays maticulous attention to detail. If it's his job to watch and wait, then it's Vincent's job to move and do. He always did like motion more. Veld followed not far behind, even as Vincent was twisting a silencer to his gun, letting the brunette wrap the sides of his knuckles around the door knob-- better than leaving a fingerprint, and simply emoving the skin right there, no, that would desensative the nerves. And he presses the back of his fingerlessly gloved hand to silently push the door open.

He motions, and Vincent is already moving. The gun is a precaution. Veld doesn't like them much. He prefers knives over anything. It's odd, but he considers it a lot more personal. He can feel the target dying, rather than risking that one shot to the chest that the target could have maybe survived. For all Veld's impresonal air, he likes to be up close. And he doesn't understand how his partner can prefer to be so far away.

It's a job, though.

When it's done, the only evidence of their passing is the blood and the bodies.

Nothing more, nothing less.


End file.
